To an angel, nothing is more endearing than human thoughts;
O to hear the sound of thoughts flooding the earth realm, the water of words, dreams, amusing notions! The endless stream of words flowing brings us nearer....

The angel stands on the edge of a tower, wings appearing and disappearing; voices catch him in flight, children watch him from below on the teeming street.

The orchestra of voices grows louder and then grows quiet.

A trapeze artist whispers to herself. She longs for wings to wrap themselves around her world of air.
The angel strolls through Berlin invisible as gossamer. Part of being human is to be blind; the angels have known this for countless eternities. As they walk they can feel blood drumming in their veins, smell the cool morning and hear inhalations and exhalations, know that when the child was a child it spoke as a child, it breathed as a child Wen das kind es sparch wie en kind es althment wie ein kind es denkt wie en kind und wen das kind das bekount elter...and when the child became a man, its gift of seeing the invisible vanished.

The trapeze artist searches here and there, in a cafe, in a club, on the streets of Berlin at night. She is looking for her angel and he for her.

Soon he will lock his long, invisible fingers in hers, and she will say it all like a woman confessing.